


1 Peter 4:7 - The End of All Things

by purrfectj



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrfectj/pseuds/purrfectj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn't thought about how she would dress herself, how she would braid her hair, how she would make love with her husband, how she would hold the baby she ached for, how she would wield her staff and call the flames, how she could be a help on a freehold where a wife would have to cook and clean and feed the livestock and plant and plow and how, how could she be <em>herself</em>, still, with a piece of her missing? - When the Inquisition is over, Meera and Cullen try to keep living. An epilogue to Dissonant Verses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1 Peter 4:7 - The End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dissonant Verses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449053) by [purrfectj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrfectj/pseuds/purrfectj). 



> ALERT: SPOILERS FOR TRESPASSER. So I wrote the epilogue to Dissonant Verses before I finished the story itself. This is what came out of me when I played Trespasser.

The wind had a mean bite to it, finding every opening in Cullen's shearling coat and thick woolen breeches, numbing the tips of his fingers through the lined leather of his gloves and his toes in thick socks and heavy boots. Even a few fat white flakes drifted lazily from the sky, adding to the cold winter landscape of the Storm Coast. He was incredibly grateful to shoulder open the door into the keep and feel the welcoming warmth and light spill out over him. He smiled a greeting at the young man who approached to take his cloak and gloves, sitting down in the modest front hall to take off his muddy boots. Even Ash, his big mabari, seemed pleased to be home, nudging him lightly before wandering away toward the kitchens. “Frederick. How’s your grandfather?” 

“Better, m’Lord. M’Lady brewed up a potion for ‘is lungs and made sure we had firewood and meat enough.” The young man’s voice cracked somewhere in the midst of the words, his spotty skin flushing. Cullen clasped the skinny shoulder gently as he rose. 

“You’ll let us know if you need something,” he said firmly and received a grateful nod. “Speaking of my lady wife, do you happen to know where she is?” 

“Haven’t seen her this mornin’, m’Lord. Berthe in the kitchens said her maid said she was feelin’ poorly, though, and so she might still be abed.” Cullen squeezed Frederick’s shoulder again and smiled his thanks even as worry slithered into his belly. He’d left her sleeping peacefully in their big bed, her long auburn hair tangled from their before dawn loving, her pretty face relaxed and happy. It was rare these days for melancholy to keep either of them away from their duties. He would hope she was still simply sleeping and prepare for something more. 

Making his way through the great hall to the family wing, he paused to answer several questions and inquire after several other families of the myriad persons who helped keep the bannorn of Daerwin’s Mouth running smoothly. Most were former members of the Inquisition, ones who’d told the former Inquisitor bluntly that they’d sworn allegiance to her not some blighted idea and so where she went, they went. Others were former Templars who’d chosen not to join Cassandra as she rebuilt the Seekers, family to or former members of the Blades of Hessarian, and still others refugees, former apostates, and various Ferelden freeholders who had sworn allegiance to the Bann of Daerwin’s Mouth. It still caused Cullen a start to realize _he_ was the Bann of Daerwin’s Mouth, a sworn vassal to King Alistair and Queen Aalish Theirin of Ferelden, considered an ambassador to Empress Celene of Orlais, friend and ally to Viscount Varric Tethras of Kirkwall and Magister Dorian Pavus of Tevinter, and cautiously approachable brother-in-law to the Bann of Ostwick. 

Thank the Maker for his wife, who had more patience than he with the various nobility and such that wended in and out of their lives, and who had fully supported his wish to create a safe haven for Templars suffering from lyrium withdrawal or dementia. Though the main keep of Daerwin’s Mouth was situated on Dragon Island and the nearby port was a bustling hub of trade between the Free Marches, Orlais, and Ferelden, the former base of the Blades of Hessarian had been converted into a home for such men and women with the full support of Divine Victoria. Surprising to them both, however, mages from the College of Enchanters had reached out asking how they could help, and now the sanctuary was a restful, charming place where the Chantry and magic lived in relative harmony. As someone with magic herself, his wife had been thrilled to find her fellows willing, able, and prepared to help. 

There had even been a few marriages uniting mages and Templars in the Hessarian chantry. 

He pressed open the door to their quarters but found the room empty, though the bed remained unmade and the fire burned merrily. The door which opened into the smaller chamber adjoining theirs, however, stood slightly ajar and he could faintly hear voices. Stepping through and closing the door behind him for privacy, he felt his earlier worry dive into alarm to find his wife and his love and the center of his world sitting on the floor, her face pale and drawn. 

Behind her the wooden crib adorned with cheerful red and gold griffons, a gift from Thom when he received news of the baby, was empty. 

Before panic could swallow Cullen whole, a high, sweet voice babbled excitedly and a sturdy little body popped out from under the crib next to his wife, a halo of superfine white blonde curls brightening the round cheeked dimpled face, rosebud mouth stretched wide to display her few pearly white baby teeth, chubby hands making greedy grabby motions as the toddler squealed, “Da, Da, up, Mari go up!” 

Swamped with love and relief, Cullen scooped his daughter up and set her on his hip where she immediately began playing with the ties of his tunic. He sank down to his haunches next to his wife, curling his free arm around her shoulders and tugging until, with a tired sigh, she sank against him. Pressing a kiss first to Mari’s soft curls and then to his wife’s temple, he murmured, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

She turned, nuzzling her nose into his neck, and he felt the absence of her prosthesis as her empty sleeve trailed against his hip. “Hurting?” he asked, relieved when she shook her head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his shoulder. There were still bad days, for both of them. His wife dealing with her self-imposed disability and the terror that no matter the sacrifice she’d made, the mark was still slowly draining away her life; he with the knowledge he would always be addicted to lyrium, that his occasional lapses in memory could become routine and one day, he would forget those he loved. Always, however, always they tried to be honest with one another, and if she said she wasn’t hurting, she wasn’t. 

“Two beautiful ladies drooling on me. The morning looks better and better,” he teased and was rewarded by the silent huff of his wife’s laughter against his throat. His daughter reached around and patted her mother’s hair. 

“Mama sick,” Mari said, giving Cullen a very serious look reminiscent of her mother. He couldn’t resist a kiss to her pouting mouth, then another to his wife’s forehead. She lifted her eyes, those spring green eyes that made his heart ache every time she turned them on him, the eyes she’d gifted to their little girl, their precious baby, his precious wife. She lifted her hand and traced Mari’s rounded cheek, then repeated the gesture on Cullen, who turned into the caress, lifting his free hand to capture hers. 

“Not sick, sweet baby girl. Your little brother is just letting me know he’s in there. Little man is already wearing me out and he’s not even here yet.” 

Breath whooshed out of Cullen and he gave into shock and his aching joints as he sank fully onto the floor, staring in wonder as Meera Rutherford, former Trevelyan of the Ostwick Trevelyans, former mage of the Circle, former Herald of Andraste, former Inquisitor, and now just the beloved and cherished wife of the Bann of Daerwin’s Mouth and wonderful mother to their daughter smiled at him, wide and soft and pleased. “We’re…you’re…another?” he managed to stutter, his hand coasting down to settle over her belly. When she nodded, covering his hand with hers, Cullen murmured a reverent, “Maker’s breath.” 

Meera’s heart simply melted at the look of wonder and delight on Cullen’s face. He was the best kind of father to their daughter, attentive and interested and present, always willing to kiss away hurts or tell a story or play horsey for a bright, active toddler. When she'd been a wee thing and wailed as if her heart were breaking for most of the night, it was often Cullen who brought her to their bed, who whispered and cajoled and sometimes sang in his rich tenor, who cuddled Meera and Mari into the cradle of his thighs and his arms, fascinated and humbled to watch his baby nurse at his wife's breast. Mari, short for Marian which made Delia Hawke, official Ferelden ambassador to Kirkwall and who used Daerwin’s Mouth as her Ferelden base, smirk and Cullen grimace, adored her Da. Their love affair was mutual. How could Meera deny him the chance to love another curly blonde babe and be loved in return? How could she deny herself the pure pleasure of feeling his child moving under her heart, this man she had loved and been loved by for more than five years, who'd stood by her through so much? 

After she'd lost her arm to the anchor, willingly but still lost, she'd been terrified she couldn't be the wife Cullen deserved. 

The Exalted Council had only cemented Meera's wish to see the Inquisition end, to step out of public life, to help in a quieter, more personal capacity. When Cullen had asked her to marry him, the mabari he’d rescued dancing around them, she'd been thrilled; she'd thought of nothing for days while she was lectured and harangued and praised save babies and a warm hearth and welcoming, loving arms. She'd even reached out to King Alistair and Queen Aalish of Ferelden asking them for leave to purchase a freehold. She'd been shocked when the answering letter had invited 'Mr. and Mrs. Cullen Stanton Rutherford' to the palace in Denerim. Then they'd found the dead Qunari and Solas had betrayed them all and at the end, when the anchor was killing her with every breath, Meera had asked Vivienne to help her cut off her left arm at the elbow. The healers, and Meera’s own magic, told her it might end the anchor’s hold on her altogether, or at least significantly slow its progress. She’d been desperate, demanding, willing to do anything to _live_. 

She hadn't thought about how she would dress herself, how she would braid her hair, how she would make love with her husband, how she would hold the baby she ached for, how she would wield her staff and call the flames, how she could be a help on a freehold where a wife would have to cook and clean and feed the livestock and plant and plow and how, how could she be _herself_ , still, with a piece of her missing? She’d been terrified, shrinking smaller and smaller as she said goodbye to the family she’d forged under the broken sky and had held again so briefly at the Exalted Coucil. She knew, in her heart, they’d come back to her as they could, or she could go to them and be welcome, but still they left her and it left a hole in her heart. 

She had still been despondent when they’d traveled to Denerim for an audience with the King and Queen. Except it wasn’t an audience, it was a Landsmeet, and King Alistair and Queen Aalish, with the support of most of the bannorn, had declared henceforth Cullen would be Bann Cullen of Daerwin’s Mouth, with his bannorn to stretch over most of the Storm Coast per the request of the Queen’s brother and Teyrn of Highever, Fergus Cousland, to whom Daerwin’s Mouth owed fealty. 

“It’s a rocky bit of business, and I don’t envy you the cost of upkeep on the port,” Fergus said ruefully. Arl Teagan Guerrin made a dissatisfied grunt. 

“Shut up, Teagan, they gave us back Caer Bronach,” the King had admonished, but gently. 

“And brought Mama home!” piped up Crown Princess Moira, the picture of her mother save the wavy fall of golden brown hair, sitting primly and erect on her little throne just to the side of her father. 

Her twin Prince Duncan, a copy of his father save the bright sapphire eyes and not to be outdone, added, “Yeah!” and nearly toppled out of his own little throne just to the side of his sister as he jabbed a finger into the air. 

Some muttered complaints but mostly indulgent laughter had swept through the hall. The Queen had smiled, reaching out to capture her husband's hand, holding it firmly in her own. “And I'm grateful for every day.” 

Standing quietly next to Cullen, the left sleeve of her lovely green silk gown pinned up, Meera had watched the royal family and known only the yawning pit of despair. 

Except the man she’d married, the man who knew demons and doubt, had been so kind, so patient, so tender as she learned a new body, a new shape, a new person. He’d taught himself to braid her hair, a ritual she found by turns both soothing and stimulating, and when she needed to be bullied out of bed, he’d bullied her, and when she’d needed to be cuddled and stroked and soothed with soft kisses and gentler words, he’d been there for that, too. To help along her healing, he’d required her council on everything from the building of the Hessarian Templar refuge to the Captain of their guard to plans for upgrades to the port to the precise location of their manor house. “I think where you killed a dragon,” he’d teased, his blonde curls tossed by the breeze off the sea, a relaxation in his stance, a confidence in his voice that was new and perfect. “So people remember my wife is little but mighty.” 

She’d kissed him then on the mountaintop where they would build their home, and told him she was going to have his child, and known she was everything he could want or need, and his, and enough. And he’d wept, her handsome former Templar and Commander, and held her close, and under a tree they’d pledged to each other again with voices and lips and bodies. When he’d pressed his lips to her bare belly and whispered, “Hello, little one. I’m your Da, and I love you,” Meera’s heart had overflowed. 

Dagna, who had decamped with Meera and Cullen to the Storm Coast with a shrug and a smile, pointing out Sera would know where to find her that way, and it was close to Orzammar and Kirkwall where she had active commissions, had jumped in to create various prostheses, both magical and non, for her friend. Some were more successful, and less dangerous, than others. The sturdy wooden wand with the pretty blue crystal tip that screwed into a leather overglove was Meera’s favorite; Cullen admitted he had a fondness for the clever little crossbow despite her horrible aim. 

As their home was built and they worked with the Divine and, later, the College of Enchanters, on the Templar refuge, they carved out some time to visit Cullen’s family. They were a revelation. Cullen came from a family who loved and fought and bled for each other just as the Inquisition’s inner circle had and would: Mia, strong and tender and bossy, Branson boisterous and laughing and playful, Rosalie gentle and sweet and kind, and their spouses and their children, sprawling and noisy and overwhelming. How Mia had scolded to see Meera round with child, “You didn’t even write to tell us about the babe!”, but her smile was wide and welcoming, her advice heartfelt and helpful and, sometimes, hilarious. 

Late on the first night, curled up together on their sides in the bedroom kept for guests with Cullen curved around her, his hands cradling the mound of her belly, he’d asked, “All right?” 

She’d turned to face him so she could see his face in the moonlight spilling through the curtains, their baby nestled between them. “I am so grateful.” At his raised eyebrow and troubled expression, she’d traced his cheekbone, then the curve of his jaw, then his lips, memorizing his face. “They love you. Even as long and as far away as you’ve been, they love you and think about you and miss you.” She’d covered his hands on her belly with her hand, pressing gently until the baby kicked in reply. The wonder and delight that filled Cullen’s amber eyes warmed her straight through. “And now they welcome me, and our baby, because we’re yours. And when we go, they’ll miss us, too, and think of us far away. There will be holidays and gifts and letters and visits.” She’d leaned in and brushed her lips against his. “You’ve given me another family, Cullen, different but no less wondrous than the one we built in the Inquistion.” 

His answering kiss had been joy and tenderness and love and faith. 

“You're hoping for a boy this time?” he asked finally, drawing Meera back to the present, turning his hand over to twine his fingers with hers, knuckles grazing the place where this new baby slept. “I think we make wonderful little girls.” Mari beamed when Cullen squeezed her gently. She rewarded her Da's squeeze with a sloppy kiss to his cheek, her hand still playing in Meera’s hair. 

“I'd like a little boy, I think, one with your eyes. That would give us one of each.” Meera's smile eased into a laugh. “Justin says if it _is_ a boy, it's his turn for a namesake. I told him only if he and Delia promised they'd name the next child, or cat, they adopt after you. He snapped his mouth closed and left as if I'd set his breeches on fire.” 

Cullen's chuckle was swallowed by Mari's excited cry of “Fie!” The little girl wiggled on her Da's hip and tugged on her mother's hair. “Fie, Mama!” 

Meera leaned in and kissed her daughter's tip-tilted nose, then rubbed her own against it. Their matching grins made Cullen's heart give one hard, fast thump: these were _his_ girls, _his_ wife, _his_ daughter. And now the promise of another. So much, he had so much. 

“Yes, little one, fire. Can you say baby?” 

Mari screwed up her petite face in concentration. At nearly one and half, she would rather be doing than talking, a whirlwind of motion, but she was a quick learner and anxious to please her doting parents. Finally, she blurted, “Baby!” and grinned proudly when both Meera and Cullen praised her with kisses and cuddles. Finally, though, she patted them both. “Mari down. Play war. Want puppy!” 

At the bark at the door, Meera sighed and moved to stand, using her husband’s shoulder for balance. “I swear she calls that dog somehow.” 

“At least he’s a reliable babysitter,” Cullen soothed, trying to stand and nearly bowled over by his own mabari as Ash darted into the room and then rolled over in ecstasy in front of Mari, tongue lolling from his mouth. “And I think more her dog than mine,” he added ruefully when Mari fell on the big hound with delighted giggles. 

“I’m yours,” Meera murmured, moving back toward him. He gathered her in, inhaled the familiar smell of her, his wife, ink and tea and magic. When she pressed her cheek over his heart, he smoothed a hand down her back and sighed, his heart full. 

Whatever came, and it would come as that was the way of things, he had this moment, this time, this woman, their children. 

“As I’m yours,” he vowed. 

It was enough. 


End file.
